It’s Good Friday, the day Our Lord was apparently crucified. As a child, I remember any display of happiness being strictly forbidden. The Catholics of Kilburn and Cricklewood would make their way to the sombre 3 o’clock service, all terribly solemn. Or pretending to be terribly solemn. Everyone knew that within 48 hours Our Hero would be up and about again, sporting a few minor abrasions. This whole charade now seems as silly as believing in Father Christmas or the tooth fairy. It’s a beautiful day, four days off work and an imminent chocolatefest. A lot of people have gone away, leaving London joyously accessible to those who remain. I couldn’t be happier. And seriously, if I’m wrong and there really is an all-loving and all-merciful God, isn’t this how he’d prefer us to be?
I’m not supposed to feel like this.
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